


A Most Painful Day

by Riffir



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Discipline, Kink Meme, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-26
Updated: 2012-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 04:02:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riffir/pseuds/Riffir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written a long time ago and never posted for a prompt on one of the kinkmemes (which basically says everyone spanks Holmes). Warning: it contains lots of non-sexual discipline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Most Painful Day

In the middle of Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, Holmes eyed the thirteen different china bowls lining the counter. One of them would inform him just how the clockmaker’s daughter had constructed the box she had sent to Watson two weeks earlier. The contraption had been created out of pages torn out of the Strand, each one depicting their cases together, though the woman was clever; she had somehow managed to find all of the parts where Watson had written about himself. The doctor would have been charmed and impressed, had he ever seen the box.

Holmes had personally found the box to be ugly. Not because of her choice in materials--though he still thought Watson needed to learn how to report the facts, rather than convolute them with romanticism-- but because of the crusty glue she had used to hold the pages together. A quick trip under the microscope (before its ultimate destination-- the fireplace) had informed Holmes that it was, in fact, not the byproduct of a large hoofed animal, but instead made up of flour. The only question remaining was the mixture used in order to keep the whole thing from either disintegrating, or from clouding over the print.

It had been nine days since his last case, five days, seven hours and twenty three minutes since Watson had left for his medical convention, and two hours since the second letter had arrived asking him to locate a precious, expensive and potentially breedable former show dog. He had performed countless chemical experiments, read dozens of manuscripts on forensic evidence, and was about to go out of his mind with boredom. 

Only the look Watson had leveled at him before he had left kept Holmes from the green Morocco case currently residing in his desk drawer. Therefore, with his seven percent solution effectively forbidden (at least for the moment; Watson would return and easily be able to diagnose withdrawal in the next day), Holmes had turned to stretching his mind in more mundane practices. He had created and burnt a historically accurate model of 1666 London, to see if a mere bakery fire could have destroyed so much of the city. From the scorch marks left on the floor of Watson’s bedroom ( the only room with a suitable cross wind, created by the windows above his bed as well as the one at the landing of the stairway), Holmes was fairly certain that he had found no evidence to disprove history. 

His current goal was to discover the exact properties of adhesive on the clockmaker’s daughter’s box. Each china bowl had a different mixture of flour and water. Holmes dipped a Strand clipping from the current edition into each bowl, and smeared each onto an old cardboard box. Moments later, the mixture had dried enough to rule out some of the more extreme mixtures.

He was blowing on the others when the creak of the doors that led to the landlady’s quarters warned him of Mrs. Hudson’s approach. Holmes glanced over his shoulder at the diminutive, white-haired old woman. “Ah, Mrs. Hudson! Allow me but a few more moments, and I will retire quite hastily from your kitchen.”

“Mr. Holmes, I don’t mind your using the kitchen…” the landlady’s voice trailed off as she peered around Holmes at his latest experiment. “…are those my china bowls? That were given to my great-aunt?”

He had gone back to examining the other examples. “Hm? I suppose so-- I am unaware of any familial history these vessels might have, but they do appear to be your bowls.”

Three more concoctions proved themselves incorrect. Holmes tossed the cardboard examples back over his shoulder, and ignored the indignant squawk erupting from his right. “Mr. Holmes!”

“Just a moment longer, Mrs. Hudson…” he muttered. He retrieved his magnifying glass from his jacket pocket and bent forward to examine the clippings more thoroughly. Yes, perhaps number seven, though perhaps there was a certain method to the woman’s ‘art,’ to create the crusting … 

One of the bowls clattered against the wooden countertop as he tipped the example from side to side. With an impatient mutter, Holmes brushed the bowls away, sending them a few inches down the counter. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Mrs. Hudson go rigid. 

Certain that the elderly landlady would simply choose her normal outlet when dealing with her more eccentric renter --venting-- Holmes dismissed the fact from his mind. He was, therefore, completely unprepared for bloom of pain in the back of his left thigh a moment later. 

With a startled exclamation, Holmes twisted around. Mrs. Hudson had evidently gone promptly to the drawer she kept her cooking implements in, picked what felt like a rather large, sturdy wooden spoon, and returned with the desire to rend her emotions more physically upon him. Her left hand pushed his jacket coat out of the way while her right waled away at his thighs. All the while, her thin, querulous voice was scolding him. 

Fully intending to push her back and end this confrontation as soon as possible (it was one thing for Watson to take such liberties; for the landlady to do so was inexcusable), Holmes was forced to a still when a bit of her rant penetrated through his shock and indignation. “…nearly destroying my family heirlooms…what would the doctor think…”

Holmes froze. Watson, whose own family was nearly completely gone, would most assuredly take offense at the eradication of such priceless items. An emotion akin to guilt began to bite away at his chest, a tension that was becoming more and more familiar. Biting back the urge to escape, Holmes clamped down on his lips, determined to take whatever the landlady dished out stoically. 

“Of all the foolish, inconsequential…just because some pretty girl sends the doctor a bauble… you keep out of my kitchen, understand Mr. Holmes?” The spoon never ceased its furious and continuous barrage of strikes. He managed to agree. “And I’m dusting your sitting room as well.”

Now the woman was pushing things. He fully intended to inform her that she could continue to remain absent from his rooms, but he could feel that spoon forming bruises on his upper legs, and had a desire to sit comfortably in the near future. “Yes! Perfectly fine.”

The acquiescent response brought on a pause, then Mrs. Hudson thwacked him twice more before getting a grip on his earlobe and yanking him toward the door. Holmes stumbled out, resisting the urge to rub at the welts. 

“Out.” Mrs. Hudson pointed her spoon at him, clearly intending to use it again if at all provoked. “Go on a walk, go visit your charming brother, go harass Scotland yard if you wish, but leave me in peace.”

Easily managed. Holmes gave a curt bow, turned on his heel, and stalked out the front door.

~~~ 

Despite Watson’s romantic recount of his return from the dead in the Strand, reality had dealt a far different hand for London’s first and perhaps only consulting detective. There had not been the touching, joyous reunion that the doctor had written about. No fainting, and certainly no smiles. Instead, Watson had been livid. He had nearly ordered Holmes out of his home, and ultimately out of his life when Holmes had, in a fit of desperation, promised anything, anything so long as Watson forgave him and returned to Baker Street. Thus, the idea of discipline was introduced. “I’ll keep this simple,” Watson had told him before their first session. “This isn’t about total control; it’s about consequences. No more lying- no more pretending to be dead, dying, or even just sick. And you will take better care of yourself. I am not returning to Baker Street just to watch you poison yourself slowly.”

Holmes had learned that night that Watson had been a prefect while in school, one that actually might have stood a chance of checking his own adolescent adventures had he and Watson attended the same scholarly institution. The man was dreadfully skilled with both birch and cane, not to mention any of the lesser, yet appreciably painful, implements. 

Holmes lit a cigarette as he strolled down the street, grateful that the weather was warn enough that he had not needed to grab his coat and scarf on his way out, and pondered his options. He could, indeed, go and visit Mycroft; the man had sent a telegram requesting his presence at the Diogenes a few days ago. The notice had specifically mentioned a lack of anything interesting work-wise, and Holmes had a sinking feeling that the motive behind Mycroft’s attention was familial in nature, and he had no urge to go drink tea with his brother and discuss the next time they would visit their mother. The Punchbowl was, of course, always an option-- there would be no fights until later, but he could find a decent bottle of whiskey until then, or perhaps gamble with a few of the regulars and win back some of Watson’s money. The idea seemed dull; it would pass the time easily enough, but it held no real appeal, no sense of urgency or accomplishment. 

Perhaps he would visit one of the so-called gentlemen at Scotland Yard. If there was a case to be had, even if it was one that his dead grandmother could have solved after her trip six feet under, then at least he would have some sort of entertainment for the day; one that would even aid the greater good, or any of that other romantic garble that Watson constantly wrote about

~~~

Inspector Lestrade’s eyebrows shot up as Holmes let himself into the dismal little office, leaving the hallway with its abundance of traffic. Apparently, the members of the Yard had plenty of free time on their hands; a fact that did not bode well for Holmes “Did one of the boys send out for you?” The inspector asked. “Far as I know, nothing interesting’s been about.” Behind Lestrade, placing a few files on the tallest shelf in the office was Clarkey, who gave a small smile as he turned back around. 

Lestrade’s office was the same as any of the other Inspectors. An appropriately large desk (considering that paperwork was the only thing the Yard was capable of doing well), sat in the middle of the room. A few shelves, an extra table, and three chairs all lined the edge of the room. Holmes let the door swing shut behind him, and positioned one of the chairs in the middle of the room. 

There were thousands of little clues about the inspector strewn about. A small, viciously crumpled bag suggest a domestic argument. The bags under his eyes indicated a long night, and the rumples in his clothes alluded to sleeping in his clothes. “Of course not. There hasn’t been a truly intriguing crime in London for years.” He threw himself into the chair, and winced as the back of his thighs hit padded wood. “But I’m positive,” he continued, keeping his voice level, “ that there must be some mundane little issue that you need taken care of, and with the entire force of Scotland Yard’s finest so obviously overworked,” he waved a hand airily, as though to emphasize the building in general, “perhaps you need a pair of fresh eyes to do your work for you.”

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed in on him. “Something the matter, Mr. Holmes? You look rather uncomfortable.” 

“Perfectly fine.” Holmes answered, gritting his teeth. Was the padding on the chairs all made of wood as well? Did they really subject grieving survivors to the torture of sitting in them? “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Nothing to answer it with,” Lestrade gave a small shrug. “Nothing interesting has happened in weeks. Not since that Cushing mystery that you tidied up for us.” He leaned back in his chair, and a smiled. “You think the doctor will write that one up? Seemed like it would make a good story, what with the ears and all.”

Watson had already started penning out his notes concerning the case, and for some strange reason that Holmes could never understand, it started by discussing the weather. Whether the sun was out or not had nothing to do with this case. Such needless details would only detract from the story, would confuse the readers instead of showing them the proper methods that Holmes advocated. “I’m sure it will be a sensational piece of work by the time Watson has finished with it.” 

Lestrade laughed. “More the pity. I don’t think I’ve ever looked very good in doctor Watson’s work. Then again, when you have ‘ferret- like’ features, and a ‘sallow complexion,’ you’re pretty much doomed to play the buffoon in literary history.” The words held an edge, and Holmes’ gaze narrowed on the Inspector’s eyes. The humor he found there was sarcastic, sharp, bitter. A bit of the emotions usually reserved for Holmes alone, focused on the one man who had made the detective’s name known throughout London.

“You slander the doctor horribly, Lestrade.” Holmes sat forward. “Watson is far too honest to intentionally defame a man’s good name based upon their appearance.” A veil of confusion shadowed the anger in Lestrade’s eyes. “and he’s far too unimaginative to make up such commonplace incompetence.”

To Lestrade’s credit, the confusion lifted immediately, to be replaced by exasperation. Behind him, Clarkey stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Of course, Mr. Holmes.” the Inspector stood, and picked his hat up off the desk. “You’ll have to excuse me, however. Even with all of our incompetence, we are still have to do our job.” He stalked around the table, giving Holmes a wide berth. After wrenching open the door, he paused just outside the room. “Unfortunately, I suppose, we aren’t so incompetent that we’ve needed help lately,” he considered, head tipped back to gaze almost archly down at Holmes. 

Holmes felt a tic jump in his jaw, “You haven’t been arresting anymore innocent young men, have you? I thought you had learned after the unfortunate incident with the unhappy John Hector McFarlane.”

Lestrade’s ferret-like features soured, and he shut his office door behind him with more zeal than strictly necessary. Holmes spun around in the chair to face Clarkey. “Always a little sensitive, our Inspector.” 

Clarkey‘s mustache twitched, though Holmes wasn’t quite sure if it was a suppressed twitch of annoyance or the hint of a smile. “Quite right, sir,” the constable agreed. He came around the desk, hesitated at the door, and sighed. “Of course, I do wish that he’d mentioned that bit of trouble that occurred a few days ago, down at the prison. It’s nothing very impressive or anything, but we’ve yet to figure what exactly happened.” 

“Well, go on then,” Holmes sat forward. The pressure against his thighs increased, and he pulled back again with a wince. “What is this unimpressive yet unacknowledged mystery you have on your hands?”

“You‘re aware, sir, of the correctional treatment prisoners are routinely exposed to?” .

“I’m as familiar as any other seemingly law-abiding citizen. Harsh physical reprimands, usually through means of a birth, or cane?”

“Right. We usually strap them onto a frame as well. Keeps them from fighting back, harming the guards, that sort of thing. One of the inmates managed to escape, sir. Few days ago, managed to twist right out of the restraints. The guards caught up with him pretty easily, though.”

“Yes, well, it is difficult to run about effectively with your trousers about your knees.” A state he was beginning to have personal experience with.

“The problem is, sir, that we can’t get him to tell us how he managed it. The restraints are all sound, and the wood of the frame is solid. The prison doctor swears that he didn’t break his own bones to get free, and there was no signs that he picked the lock.”

Holmes steepled his fingers before him, head tipped forward in thought. Perhaps the restraint was not done up properly. It could have been an honest mistake that no one would admit to after the fact. There was little reason for the guard to be in on it; small chance of monetary gain, and the brief reprise wouldn’t have made it worth anyone’s time. It was possible that the prisoner could have smuggled a key into the punishment room, perhaps holding it in his mouth? That would depend on the distance and angle of the punishment block. 

Holmes stood and turned in a brief, smooth movement. He was intrigued, despite the simplicity of the issue, and perhaps the small exercise would distract him from his current bout of boredom. “Do you still have this contraption at the yard?”

Clarkey’s smile bordered on malicious as he led Holmes through the twisting corridors of the Yard offices to what he called the storage room. Inside, he pointed to what looked like a giant tripod, decorated with restraints and a padded bar. A wooden contraption resembling medieval stocks were nailed to the base of the tripod. Holmes circled the frame slowly, easily imagining how the prisoner would be restrained. 

Clarkey pointed to the top of the frame, where a pair of restraints dangled menacingly. “This one is adjustable. We can restrain the prisoner so that they’re standing, with the padded bar at their waist, or we can bend them over.” He gestured to another pair of restraints that lay on the floor by the third foot of the frame.”

“How versatile of you. And here I thought Scotland Yard to be unimaginative.” 

Clarkey coughed, once. “Not actually the Yard’s invention, sir.”

“No, somehow I imagine not.” Holmes strode forward, and ran his hand over the padded bar of the frame. “So, the prisoner is held as such…” He stepped into the grooves of the open stocks, legs spread wide, and stretched his hands up to the restraints above him, fingers barely able to curl about the cold metal cuffs that clanked against the wooden frame.. 

Clarkey shook his head. “Not this time, sir. This prisoner was restrained by the floor cuffs.”

“A particularly naughty criminal, then.” Holmes bent over the bar, and dropped his hands to the floor. The position was distinctly uncomfortable, with his weight held almost entirely upon his stomach. “Clarkey, give me hand with the restraints.” He rolled his eyes at the constable’s surprised expression. “In order to see how he escaped, I need to replicate everything in how it occurred. Restrain my hands, please.” If a common criminal, who was foolish enough to get caught by London’s finest, had managed to pick his way free, then Holmes held no inhibitions that he could not do the same. 

Clarkey nodded, perhaps a little too eagerly, and slipped the cuffs over his hands, tightening the straps about his wrists. He then turned to the stocks and locked the wooden beams tightly across Holmes’ ankles. 

Holmes twisted over the padded beam, jerked his hands about, and tried his best to kick his way free. The only thing he succeeded in was wearing out his arms and producing a splinter in his ankle. He wasn’t long enough to reach the far side of the frame, and the restraints didn’t have enough slack for him to reach for anything on his person. Behind him Clarkey said nothing, though Holmes could hear him shift occasionally, fabric whispering against itself.

“This is accomplishing nothing,” Holmes said finally. He could feel the blood rushing into his face, and his hip bones were starting to hurt. “Clarkey, let me up. The only conclusion is the guard’s inability to correctly do his job.”

For a few moments, Clarkey said nothing. Then, Holmes felt a hand at the waist of his trousers. “There are a few more difference between this and the way the judicial canings are usually carried out, Mr. Holmes.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Holmes cried out impatiently. “I can’t discover what a prisoner would do without knowing all of the variables that they are put through!” 

“Very well, sir,” Clarkey responded, and reached around Holmes’ waist to fumble at his trouser buttons. 

Shock surged through him, pinpointed from the onslaught of fingers. Holmes jerked away as far as the restraints allowed him. Unimpressed, the constable worked at Holmes’ pants, undoing them and tugging at the considerably looser fabric . “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Only showing you the exact variables involved.”

“I think not,” Holmes blustered, trying without success to twist his hips away from Clarkey’s grasping fingers. Anger warred with apprehension in his gut, and he choked back both in favor of a voice filled with stern authority ‘You are not caning me!”

“Only in the name of science, sir.”

Holmes swore softly and tried to buck off the padded bar. Clarkey tugged once on his trousers, then stopped. Realizing that the bracers were impeding the constable’s progress, Holmes relaxed momentarily. The sound of metal against leather caused him to tense up, and he felt the edge of a knife blade against the small of his back. His breath caught in his sternum as the point drew across tender skin.

With one precise movement, Clarkey cut through the bracers. The straps fell down the back of his shirt, bunching up at his shoulder blades where his shirt kept gravity from sending them to the floor. His pants were tugged free. Then Clarkey appeared before him, heading toward a small closet near the door they had entered through.

“Did you know, sir,” Clarkey asked as he withdrew a sturdy cane from the back of the closet door, “that the judicial cane is quite a bit thicker than the ones used as boarding schools? Gives a bit of a bigger thwap, I suppose.”

Holmes declined to respond to that. “Clarkey. Let me out, and I’ll do us both the favor of never mentioning it again.”

Clarkey simply shook his head as he maneuvered around the frame. “I couldn’t let you miss out on some key clue that could solve this mystery, sir.”

“There is no mystery!” Holmes let his head drop indignantly. Clarkey had never been particularly clever, but surely even he could see this. “The guard did not perform his job correctly, be it that he was bribed or merely incompetent. It does not matter!” He fell silent, lips twitching, as the cane swished dangerously close to his left flank. The air around his hips felt cooler than the season should have allowed, and he was grateful that the stocks kept his feel as far apart as they did. Any closer together, and his trousers would be pooled round his ankles, and Holmes had little urge to wait for Clarkey’s small brain to comprehend the bruises on the backs of his legs.

“You’re right about that, sir.” The sound of boots shifting against cobblestones seemed especially loud in the small room. Clarkey was squaring his hips, then. Which inevitably would lead to…

Another quiet swish precluded a line of fire darting across the middle of his backside. Holmes shut his eyes, and inhaled sharply. He was no stranger to the cane-- his adolescence at school had insured that, regardless of the past few years with Watson. Still, Clarkey was correct; this cane was a beast.

Another stripe, this one a bit lower than the first. Holmes set his teeth, wound his fingers against the metal chain, and distanced himself from the pain. The third nicked the first , and the fourth seemed to cross all of the previous marks. Apparently, if Clarkey had visited any of those infamous boarding schools, he had certainly not been Head Boy. 

The fifth line caught at the top of his thighs, and Holmes jerked spasmodically against the restraints. The sixth caught him dangerously high, and the detective found himself grateful that he was not standing; at the rate Clarkey was going, it would have insured definite kidney damage, if not anything more severe. A seventh hit just below the sixth, and Holmes winced. He would have been lucky to escape a ruptured spleen, or, even more ludicrously, a pierced lung.

“I’m not sure you’re aware of this,” he began haughtily, striving to keep his tone even. “But most schools leave off after six. It’s where the phrase ‘six of the best’ comes from.”

“Do they now,” Clarkey didn’t even sound interested. “On a related note, sir, most prisons give these out in sets of twenty-four. Perhaps we should continue on so you can note the difference.”

“Oh please, let’s.” Holmes snapped, and immediately regretted it when the cane snapped back down. Four stripes were laid down in rapid succession, and Holmes found himself wondering when all of his intelligence had fled the vicinity

Watson had never restrained him. Had never actually physically maneuvered him into position; at most, he would keep a firm grip on one of Holmes’ wrists, to keep his hand from flying back and becoming injured (this was natural; after all, Watson held a great deal of reverence for Holmes’ hands. The one time he had attempted to punish Holmes’ palm with a ruler had left them both miserable and on edge for days). Pure punishment would never be enough to make the detective feel regret for something; pain was supposed to be the catharsis that eased all of those irritating emotions that Watson inspired in him.

The cane slowed, but did not stop. Holmes forced himself to remain as still and relaxed as possible while the strip of rattan descended, fighting with his own muscles as the number of strokes grew. He knew, from hours of …experimentation, that clenching and tensing the muscles would only cause more damage in the long run. And Holmes still had what little remained of his pride; he would not flinch more than necessary, he would not twist out of the way, and he most certainly would not cry out in pain. Not from something like this. Not from a Scotland Yard constable. 

After the twenty-fourth strike, Clarkey let the tip of the cane fall onto the floor. Holmes glared at the inside of his eyelids, and concentrated on breathing harshly through his nose. He could hear Clarkey panting as well, and felt a small twinge of satisfaction well up inside him. 

After the constable seemed to catch his breath, Clarkey headed back toward the closet, hanged the cane back on the door, then made his way back to Holmes. The detective cracked open an eye, and examined the worn shoes before him.

“Here we are,” Clarkey leaned down and tossed a single key onto the stones under Holmes’ nose. “This’ll work on all the locks, sir. I’ll let you see yourself out.” The shoes turned smartly and moved toward the door. Holmes reached out with almost steady fingers for the key, straining against the cuffs for enough slack to pick it up. Out of sight, the door opened, and Clarkey’s footsteps paused. “For the record? You were right. The guard was bribed.” The constable’s last ’sir’ was nearly lost as the door clanged shut behind him, a final punctuation to what had rapidly become a snide gesture. 

Holmes managed to twist his fingers about the key, to contort his hands to pry off the locks, then, slowly, hauled himself upright. He drew his fingertips gently across welted skin and winced. It appeared as though the skin had not be truly broken, though he couldn’t be completely sure until he had bathed and examined himself more fully in the privacy of his own flat. For now… he drew up and secured his trousers, completely removed the bracers and flung them to the far side of the room, before cautiously bending down to remove the locks from the stocks containing his feet. Stiffly, he stepped out of the restraints and adjusted his trousers around his waist once more. With a look of disdain around the room, Holmes palmed the key that Clarkey had given him, took a deep breath, and headed toward the door. He was pleased to note that his pace remained steady as he let himself out into the halls of Scotland Yard. 

~~~

When he returned home, Mrs. Hudson was out. It wasn’t until he had spent nearly half an hour knocking, then picking, his way into 221 Baker Street that he remembered his landlady’s practice of visiting her sister once a week. Good: he would not have to listen to another scolding courtesy from this morning. Unfortunately, neither would there be any source of distraction to take his mind off of his own throbbing backside. 

Holmes limped his way up the seventeen steps to the sitting room, and then on into the bathroom, shedding clothing on the floor as he went. He ran a bath, without bothering to warm up any water beforehand, then carefully scrubbed himself clean. The cool water soothed the heat from the cane, but left him shivering within minutes. Despite the temperate weather, it was nowhere near warm enough to sit in a cold bath.

Holmes stepped out of the bath, dried himself off, and headed into his own bedroom. He stopped in front of his mirror, dropped the towel from around his waist, and twisted his neck so he could look back over his shoulder at the marks. His backside was a myriad of colors. Small, vivid bruises ran from just above his knee to nearly the top of his thighs. Long, angry lines of red ran across his ass in all directions, intersecting randomly across each pale cheek. Holmes sighed, and reached for the loosest pants that he owned. There was no doubt that he would be tender for the next few days.

With Watson gone, there was no reason to remain in the bedroom. Before he and Watson had become involved, Holmes had always preferred the cluttered disarray of the sitting room, where there was always something of the good doctor present. Now, alone, simply being in the bedroom, where he had grown all too accustomed to Watson’s presence, was too much. After dressing himself and wrapping his dressing gown about himself, he wandered into the sitting room, and gazed about the room. 

There was nothing to do. 

No new cases had managed to pop up, no new reports from his brother regarding anything, no experiments to do, no manuscripts worth reading. Nothing. There weren’t even any case notes to organize-- Holmes had given in the previous day and organized his scraps and clippings. At the time, he had imagined the pleasure that would light up Watson’s expression when he came home, and was positive he would gain a lovely reward out of it. Now, he would have done it in a simple, desperate attempt to stave off ennui. 

Which meant there was only one thing left.

Holmes crossed the room to his desk. Opening the desk drawer, he felt through the odds and ends he had collected over the years to finally grasp the green Morocco case. If luck was with him, Watson would take the later train back. If Holmes made the dose small enough, it might just take the edge off; a smaller withdrawal could be blamed on something-- anything-- else. The boredom would abate, the emotional tension he had never been capable of dealing with would whither into the background, and life could continue on as it always had.

He prepped the drug, and rolled up his shirt-sleeve. With the needle held tight in his teeth, Holmes worked off his belt, and wound it about his upper arm, cinching the tourniquet tight. He was tapping out the vein when the sound of the front door reverberated through the house. 

At first he dismissed it as Mrs. Hudson, most likely back early after most likely quarreling with her sister. The good woman would leave him be, and simply return to her own quarters, When the creak of the stairs accompanied the thump of footsteps, Holmes was forced to reevaluate his earlier deduction, and rule out the landlady. 

Heavy tread, a pace that was slightly off-kilter… Holmes’ eyes grew wide and he whirled back to the desk, slipped the needle into the drawer and pushed it shut as quietly as possible. The footsteps had traversed the stairs, and were headed quickly toward the room, leaving little time rid the room of evidence. 

He tried to wrangle the strap off of his bicep when the metal tongue wrenched sharply and twisted itself about the leather strap it adorned. With no time for improvisations, Holmes simply slipped into his dressing gown, belted the front, and threw himself into his desk chair with a slight wince, snatching up the first monograph that came to hand. He’d scoured it two days earlier, and it had proven to be a pointless article about blood and fingerprints, all of which he had not only known about, but could have expounded upon in more explicit detail. Still, it would have to do. 

The door opened behind him, and Holmes turned about in his chair, planting a delighted smile on his face. It wasn’t hard to fabricate; John Watson’s presence seemed to brighten up any room he entered, regardless of whom else might be inside. Even if the doctor’s timing left much to be desired, Holmes was truly happy to see him. “Home early, I see.”

“Indeed,” Watson left his valise by the door, and crossed the room to drop a kiss against Holmes’ lips. Holmes tipped his head back to receive it, casually situating himself so that the hand Watson reached out with would fall on his shoulder, rather than grasp his arm, where the tourniquet was still wrapped tightly. “Did I startle you? You seemed engaged in your reading.”

“Of course not, my dear fellow. I heard the front door open, and your foot tread is remarkably unique.” He dropped the monograph onto the desktop and twined his fingers with the doctor’s, anchoring them safely against his body. “Not that I’m not enamored by your presence, Watson, but I believe you said that the conference would last a bit longer. Did a week of tedious unadventurous medical discussion find you bored and unappreciative?”

Watson grinned down at him. The man was in good humor, despite a long journey. Holmes could see a weariness in his thigh that spoke of a lengthy trip, circles under his eyes to denote the doctor’s inability to sleep in unfamiliar places, an odd smell about him that told of a dirty railway car. “Not in the least, old cock. It simply ended a bit earlier than I had originally heard; apparently, one of the guest speakers fell ill, a second was delayed, and everything was shifted around so haphazardly that they scarcely needed the full allotment of time.” He bent for a longer, deeper kiss. “And I could think of many other things to do than volunteer to fill any of their time slots with a presentation of my own,” he added with a sly grin.

Holmes’ lips curved upward in agreement. “You may have to explain some of these ideas more thoroughly,” he suggested, lifting his free hand to stroke down the front of Watson’s jacket. “But first things first.” He needed Watson to leave the room, needed to get the tourniquet off before any marks were made, before his hand turned purple, before the slow ache gathering in his extremity became obvious. “Take your valise up to your room and freshen up. We can have a bit of brandy to help ease the ache from riding in a train car for the past few hours, and perhaps by then you’ll be limber enough to provide some entertainment.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever given you cause to doubt me before.” Watson kissed him again, then caressed their linked hands down Holmes’ arm. “But I have no qualms with a bit of washing up. The car I rode in was in a deplorable state…” his voice trailed off as his fingers connected with the belt looped around Holmes’ bicep. A frown creased the skin between his brows. “Holmes, what’s this?”

An outright lie, or perhaps misdirection? Either one was dangerous, and would rouse Watson’s usually calm temper if found out. Avoidance, perhaps might work. “I missed that, Watson-- what were you saying about the train car?” Holmes winced internally as those blue eyes narrowed instantly on his own. Then again, perhaps not. 

Without unlinking their hands, and without asking again, Watson loosened the robe belt with his free hand and pulled the material down Holmes’ shoulder, just far enough to see the tourniquet, still tightly constricting against Holmes’ arm. His features contorted in rage, and Holmes sighed, knowing full well the tirade that was coming. 

“Holmes!” Watson worked the belt loose, and pulled it from his arm. 

“Spare me your lecture, Mother Hen. It’s been a trying day.”

“Apparently not trying enough.” Watson yanked the robe down further, checking the pocked skin at Holmes’ elbow. 

Holmes didn’t move, didn‘t resist. Instead, he watched from the corner of his eye, noted the light flush that was creeping up Watson’s neck, saw the jerky, abortive movements of his hands, and tried to accurately gauge Watson’s mood. Angry, yes. But that didn’t necessarily mean chastisement. 

Watson released his arm, shifted over and grasped Holmes’ chin, turning his face upward so that the light shone in his eyes. “You know what I think about your cocaine.” Despite the fierce tone, Watson’s hands were gentle.

“Oh, it wasn’t even a full--”

“Have you eaten today?” Watson demanded. His gaze bore heavily into Holmes’ own. 

“Really, Watson?” Holmes brushed his hand away from his face, stood, and smothered a wince as the skin behind his legs pulled at itself. “You just walked in the door after a five day trip, and the first pertinent question you have is regarding my choice in dinner?” 

“Did you eat yesterday?” Like a dog with a bone. 

Holmes scowled. “I believe I may have eaten a crumpet at some point. And, yes-- I have, in fact, slept.”

“Glad to hear it.” Watson turned and headed toward the door. “So we can focus our discussion on the cocaine”

“Brilliant,” Holmes snapped back as Watson stooped for his luggage and headed toward the stairs. He threw himself into his armchair hard enough to skid backwards a few inches, and reached for a cigarette. A small band of apprehension coiled itself around his stomach, and it was only his force of will that kept the cigarette steady in his hands, that allowed him to smoothly light a match on the first try. Briefly, Holmes considered making up a case, saying that the telegram had come while Watson was away, and that he had important pieces of information to gather before the night was over. Watson would give him a stay of execution-- the good doctor had always put Holmes’ cases first, even above his own practice, above his own marriage, even-- but in the end, Watson would not forget that it was coming, and it would be even worse if the doctor figured out that Holmes had been lying the whole time. Holmes sighed, and lit his cigarette.

Theory discarded. 

He could hear Watson’s bedroom door click open above. A slight still in the footsteps, a dim ‘thud’ -- the sound of the valise hitting the floor-- and then Watson’s steps were returning, thumping down the second staircase more quickly than he had ascended it. When he appeared in the doorway, his face was nearly white with rage, though his voice was deceptively quiet. “Sherlock Holmes. What have you done to my room?”

Holmes flicked ash into the fireplace, and drew one leg up to his chest. Ah, yes. The burnt floorboards. Of course. He took a long drag off his cigarette, feigning disinterest. “A small experiment, perhaps gone a bit awry. Nothing to cause you this amount of distress, my boy.” 

“Experiment!” Watson didn’t move from the doorway. Instead, he leaned his shoulder into the wooden jam, taking the stress off his wounded thigh. “What could you possibly need to experiment with in my room?”

“Oh come now,” Holmes scoffed. “You sleep in my bed. That room is for appearances only; it shouldn’t matter if I use it now and again when I need a bigger space than the clutter of the sitting room will allow.”

Watson lifted his hand to his face, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “You didn’t need a bigger space-- you needed a fire pit! And it is still my room. I don’t practice medicine in yours.”

“Of course not. You have a wonderful practice in another building, and it would be improper to bring outsiders into my bedchamber.”

“So it’s proper to wreck havoc on another’s rooms because they are out of town and cannot tell you ‘no’?” Watson demanded, face still partially obscured by his hand. 

“Hardly a valid argument. The social necessity of propriety has never dictated my actions.”

A small noise of frustration escaped Watson, sounding as though it had forced its way past clenched teeth and tense lips. Holmes took another drag off his cigarette, keeping a tight hold on his unconcerned façade. He knew he should stop, that it would be easier, in the long run, to simply admit fault and accept whatever recompense that Watson saw fit to deal out. But as he had never been good at quitting while ahead, he was even worse at accepting defeat from six feet under. 

Finally, Watson dropped his hand from his face. “That argument would only stand if it were your lodgings. This house belongs to Mrs. Hudson. You cannot destroy another person’s property like this, Holmes.”

Truly irritated, Holmes tossed his unconcerned façade to the wind. “Well done,” he spat out, “you followed the chain of logic to its inevitable conclusion. And it only took you a few minutes to make the connection.”

Watson straightened up and took two steps into the sitting room. Holmes curled his other leg up to his chest warily, and concentrated on glaring. “You can keep your low opinion on my deductions to yourself right now, Holmes. This goes further than the possibility of being thrown out by Mrs. Hudson. You could have lit the building on fire--how long would it take this building to go up in flames? You could have been killed. Mrs. Hudson could have been killed. We would be homeless. The fire could spread easily to other buildings before the brigade could arrive-- do you have any idea how quickly a fire can spread throughout London?”

“I do, actually,” Holmes bit out, a bit uneasy with the tirade. Watson cut him off before he could explain the nature of his earlier experiment. 

“I know you are bored, Holmes. I know you have no cases, and I know that you spent the past week trying to find something to entertain yourself with, but that does not give you leave to put your own life in danger!”

Holmes managed a despairing sound. “Watson. My work has put my life in danger several times, and you have given no indication of displeasure then.”

“You claim to be a smart man, Holmes. Surely you can see the difference between risking harm to capture murderers, and burning yourself to death to escape ennui.” 

Holmes scowled, and threw his cigarette into the fireplace with more force than necessary. “You truly wish to bring intelligence into this argument? I’m afraid you may be outmanned there.”

Watson turned and headed toward the door. “No,” he called back over his shoulder. “I have no intention of continuing this argument with you at all.”

Damn. Holmes stood, bent upon following, when he realized that Watson was headed toward the coat closet. Damn, indeed, considering what lay inside that innocuous little room. 

New theory: escape. Watson blocked off the front door and the window that lead to the coal shed roof-- Holmes would simply have to levy the window in his own room, hang from the sill and drop to the alleyway below, hopefully missing any barrels, broken glass, or miscreants that might be in the way. He could stay in one of his bolt-holes until the doctor had calmed down. 

Holmes turned to face the flames flickering in the fireplace. Perhaps a decent plan. Except Watson knew the location of most, if not all, of his hideaways. And Sherlock Holmes did not run from danger. Even at Reichenbach Falls, he had not so much run away, as he had gone underground to flush out his prey. Besides, he had agreed to this… arrangement. 

Theory two discarded.

Watson’s footsteps made their way back down the hall to the sitting room door. Holmes turned slowly from the fire, one hand tightly gripping the mantle. “Anything else you’d like to discuss?” Watson asked him, leaning against the doorframe again. 

Holmes stared at him, chin up and lips compressed. Agreeing to this… arrangement… did not mean he had to be graceful about it.

Unfortunately, the doctor wasn’t put-off by stropping. Watson nodded. “Right then.”  
Stomach turned to lead, Holmes waited for Watson to order him to undress, to bend over the arm of the settee, to grip the cushions, as per usual. Watson usually reserved the cane for any sort of truly flagrant behavior, though he had been known to deviate his punishments in absurdly creative ways. On one particular instance, he had sent Holmes to the nearest park to cut a collection of switches, and ordered him to carry them back to Baker Street in open sight. Another instance had put Holmes over the back of his own arm chair, to receive the leather strap. The height of the chair had nearly lifted his feet from the ground, stretching the skin and muscle. Neither option held any sort of appeal.

So when Watson crossed the room and sat down on the settee, placing their old bath brush, the one with the broken handle, on the cushion next to him, Holmes’ insides twisted with an entirely different sort of apprehension. “Watson,” he tried, getting nowhere before he was interrupted.

“Right then,” Watson repeated, clicking his fingers once. “Come here.” When he spoke this curtly, when his words seemed to be bitten off by his own teeth, when those brilliant blue eyes darkened humorlessly-- this was when John Watson was the most angry.

Unenthusiastically, Holmes moved forward. He hated being taken over the lap the most-- not out of any fear of pain, but because of the indignity. It was the same position his governess had punished him in as a child. He was the second smartest man in London, who had created his own job and had brought down criminal empires, and Watson thought it appropriate to spank him as if he were still in the nursery. He stopped next to Watson’s knee, and looked pleadingly at the doctor. 

“Trousers,”

Holmes blanched. If he took off his pants, then Watson would be able to see the marks left by Mrs. Hudson and Clarky’s early remonstrances, and he had no desire to explain this day, and all his other failings, to his already irate lover. He could already see Watson’s expression drifting dangerously into fury after hearing about Mrs. Hudson’s dishes, and Holmes didn’t want to know what his reaction to making the normally placid Clarky lose his temper would be. Holmes cast his eyes wildly about the room, looking for inspiration and finding none. “Watson, this isn’t necessary--”

“Holmes.” The tone of finality. The one that ended all arguments, that had always stopped the detective dead out of a full rant, that spoke of all of Watson’s military background. A hard, stolid halt in a hurricane of details, clues, ideas, thoughts.

A dangerous tone, indeed. 

Silently, Holmes slipped out of his robe and undid the buttons of his pants. He hesitated, then bent awkwardly at the waist (it never did get any easier, why was it always just as difficult?) and settled himself over Watson’s left leg, face down on the cushion. All without baring himself, as though if he simply ignored that command, it would keep Watson from doing it himself.

Beneath his hips, Holmes felt Watson’s leg raise minutely, felt a hand settle around his right hip, and a moment later the brush was brought down savagely on his seat. Holmes inhaled sharply, and tried his best not to twist away. Watson had not bothered to pull his trousers down. Conclusion: this would be as much for punishment of defiance as it was for everything else. Watson repeated the motion, then raised Holmes’ hips even higher and started a steady tempo of swats that had Holmes squirming over his lap in moments. Occasionally, the brush would collide with the bruises on his upper thighs, or a particularly tender welt, and a pained gasp would break through Holmes’ tightly clenched lips. Long legs kicking occasionally out behind him, Holmes could feel his composure begin to break down much more swiftly than it ever did when he was punished in any other position. The humiliation of it all always seemed to make the spanking hurt that much more. Horrified at the impending loss of control, especially so quickly, he curved his fingers into the cushions under his chest, and bared his teeth in a feral challenge to himself. The knot of tension he had been carrying all day tightened even more.

Finally, the fall of the brush slowed, then stopped. Holmes panted, trying to catch his breath and calm the rising tide of emotions threatening to swell out of control. “Please,” he whispered, trying to gage just how angry Watson still was. Sometimes, the rarely-used word would gain him a reprieve. Usually, it at least earned him a murmur of compassion, a soothing hand or, on one memorable occasion, a handkerchief. Less chances of such luck tonight, however.

“I think not,” was the cold answer, and Holmes felt the small spark of hope fade away. “Cocaine. Ruining my room. Attempts at lying.” The brush fell again, and Holmes cried out, furious at the lack of control. “We are nowhere near done.”

Watson’s finger bunched into the waistband of his trousers, and with an almost irrational moment of panic, Holmes twisted his arm back and grasped for the top of his pants. It gained him nothing; Watson merely grabbed his wrist and moved his hand up to the small of his back.

Holmes buried his face into the corner of the settee, the fingers of his left hand clenched in his own dark hair as Watson tugged his pants down past his hips to mid-thigh. There was a momentary pause, and he felt Watson’s fingers trail along the bruises left by Mrs. Hudson’s spoon, and Clarky’s less-than-appreciable caning. 

Watson sighed, breath ghosting across bare flesh. It sent a shiver though Holmes’ spare frame. “Holmes. What happened?”

Holmes shook his head, the concern in the previously cold voice causing his chest to tighten further. “Nothing you need be concerned about,” he  
spat out, masking apprehension and pain with indignation and fury. A thumb grazed across raised flesh, and Holmes squirmed in response. 

There was another sigh, and he felt Watson shift forward. Holmes frowned, knowing that the brush would be located to Watson’s right thigh and well within easy reach. As it was, the doctor was reaching over Holmes’ prostrate form to the floor below them.

Conclusion: the brush wasn’t the only weapon in Watson’s arsenal right now. 

Watson drew back, and Holmes felt his hips shift upwards again as Watson rearranged him, and a moment later, a sharp slap cracked against his left cheek. Before Holmes could completely analyze the feeling, another smack jolted him forward, and he yelped out as he realized what it was, indignation mixed with pain.

Heavy leather, stinging, sharper, more surface-level pain than the muscle-deep thud of the brush, leaving bits of dust and felt behind. Conclusion: one of Holmes’ own house slippers-- a particularly childish implement. Holmes wriggled, trying to find a way to remove his posterior from the impending line of fire, and gained nothing. 

The slipper connected with his tender flanks, switching from cheek to cheek. Holmes writhed across Watson’s knee, legs scissoring out behind him. He noted absently as yelps began to devolve into cries that the doctor was doing his best to stay away from Mrs. Hudson’s bruises, as well as Clarkey’s high placed stripes. Usually, Watson’s spankings covered all of the flesh between the back of his knees nearly to the top of his hips. Now, he was focusing on the tender underside of his ass. Holmes could feel moisture gathering behind his eyelids, and he clenched his teeth together, unable to completely muffle the sounds from emerging. 

Finally, the slipper stilled, sole pressed firmly to the tender juncture where leg met buttock. “We have five rules, Holmes. Would you care to recount them for me?”

No, not particularly, but Holmes remembered previous encounters where he had voiced that exact reticence, and had no desire to repeat the consequences. He cleared his throat, pushed his face more deeply into the settee, and muttered, barely audible to his own ears, “rule one: no cocaine or any other mental stimulant.”

The slipper landed with a loud splat on sensitive bare flesh. The crack seemed to echo through the cluttered room.

Holmes squirmed, wondering why Watson’s leg injury never seemed to act up on these occasions. His arm flexed under Watson’s hand. The doctor’s grip tightened, and Holmes was forced once again to eliminate escape as an option. “Rule two: no lying or deceptions of any kind.”

The heavy slipper punctuated that rule as well, on the opposite cheek. Holmes’ breath hitched. Watson was keeping to the tender skin, at the tops of his thighs for this part of the punishment, and Holmes knew he would feel it the next time he sat. “Rule three: I can only go for three days without sleep, even if on a case.” His legs kicked out involuntarily as the slipper landed again, right in the middle, and he bit back a yelp. “Rule four: only two days without food and water.” Which was really the most ridiculous of all the rules; he had gone much longer without sustenance and suffered no ill repercussions. Still, Holmes felt no need to argue the point as the leather sole collided for the forth time with his bare skin, and pulled a strained whimper out of his throat. Later, when the coat closet was safely closed, and they were tangled together under Holmes’ quilt, he might bring it up. 

He laid there a few moments, gathering his breath. Watson said nothing, merely rubbed his thumb against the detective’s wrist and waited for him to continue with the last rule. It had been Holmes’ one addition, because without it, this …exercise would never get them anywhere. His own will would impede it, his own pride would prohibit him from allowing such indignities to occur. Intelligence had never been Holmes’ failing-- he knew full well that Watson didn’t particularly enjoy this, even if he might get a grim sort of satisfaction while angry. Watson saw it as a way to ensure Holmes would remain alive and relatively safe, whether he was engaged in a case or not, a way to keep Holmes’ more manic side from destroying himself. Of course, Holmes also knew that the practice soothed Watson’s more excitable temper-- there was nothing like a decent hiding to level anger and clear the air, and it was due to this that Holmes would often consider bringing up the idea when Watson was infuriated by something unrelated. 

Of course, said hidings rarely lasted this long, or were this thorough. Holmes inhaled deeply, clenched his fists, and whispered. “Rule five, submit to you whenever this is necessary.” The slipper cracked down, and when it continued descending, Holmes felt his last bit of pride fall with it. Usually, Watson’s punishment’s were brisk, painful, centering. A few minutes bent over the back of his chair with a cane, and a lecture about whatever evil Holmes had happened to perpetrate earlier that day, and both came away feeling much calmer; Watson, because he felt like he had even a modicum of control over the chaos that ruled Holmes’ life, and Holmes because the sharp sting of the cane (or strap, or switch, or brush, or whatever implement that Watson saw fit to use) narrowed his focus, centered his mind, and brought the whirlwind that was existence to a momentary still even more efficiently than Watson’s voice did. Occasionally, however, the good doctor decided that a more thorough, lengthy punishment was in order.

On these instances, however, Holmes would find himself laid emotionally bare, stripped and broken, and could simply hope that Watson would put him back together again when it was over. Holmes’ cries diminished into quiet sobs, and the tension in his chest began to wane, just a little. By the time Watson was finished, Holmes was lying limply over his thigh, wailing quietly into the settee cushion. 

He barely heard the slipper fall onto the floor. Watson’s hands were now soothing, one running down the back of a bruised leg, the other rubbing the small of Holmes’ back,. Slowly, the tears tapered off, and Holmes shifted off of Watson’s lap to kneel on the floor, forehead resting on Watson’s knee. He didn’t care about his disheveled, half-dressed state, and he didn’t mind that he looked like a thoroughly chastised child. He only cared that Watson’s hands were stroking through his hair, that Watson was murmuring nonsensical, illogically comforting statements above him, that Watson was still there, with him in their own sitting room. The doctor made no attempt to quiet him, gave no admonitions about ruining yet another pair of pants with tears and snot, nor chided him on his lack of emotional control. He never did, and Holmes suspected he never would.

Gradually, the gut-racking sobs quieted into sniffling and hitched breath , and he allowed Watson to pull him upright, to straighten his clothes and press chapped lips against his cheek. 

“No more cocaine, no more destruction of Mrs. Hudson’s property, alright darling?”

Holmes nodded mutely in response, sank back to his knees and pushed his face into the juncture where Watson’s neck met his shoulder before wrapping his arms about Watson. The tension was gone now, leaving behind a weary exhaustion. 

Watson’s arms looped low around his waist for a brief squeeze before he drew back slowly, and pulled Holmes’ with him onto the settee. Both stretched out on the cushions, Watson’s head pillowed by the armrest, Holmes’ by Watson’s shoulder. They laid quietly, Watson’s hand still stroking slowly down Holmes’ back, while Holmes attempted to memorize the smell that was solely Watson, to soak in the warmth of his body, his hands wrapped solidly in the doctor’s waist jacket. His mind felt slow, a bit hazy from pain and endorphins, cognizant of the throb in his backside and the feel of Watson’s clothes. Gradually, he felt the world begin to speed up again, Finally, he pushed up onto his elbows, brushed the back of his hand across his eyes, and frowned down at Watson. “My good sir, that was quite uncivilized.”

Watson’s eyebrows lifted, and he traced the underneath of Holmes’ eye with the pad of his thumb. “If I’d realized you’d found someone else, I might have considered leniency,” he teased, the sparkle returning briefly to his blue eyes before he grew serious again. “You know the rules, Holmes. With your superior logic and reasoning skills-”

Holmes let out an exasperated huff, and settled back down. “Do be quiet.” 

~~~

When Holmes awoke, light was shining through the window, and Watson had somehow managed to disappear. Had the detective been in the habit of doubting his own senses, he would have wondered if Watson’s appearance the previous day had been a trick of his memory, a cruel ending to a particular horrid day. As it was, the raw flesh behind his legs gave him some reassurance that the doctor was, in fact, somewhere in the flat.

From the length of the shadows, Holmes had somehow managed to sleep well into the day. He stifled a yawn against the sofa cushion, ran the back of his hands across the tender skin under his eyes and pushed to a sitting position. He winced as his hips came into contact with the more solid edge of the settee. Hard surfaces were something to be avoided today. 

They had lain together for quite a while before Watson had forced Holmes off of him, so that he could check the stripes left from his previous chastisements. Holmes, perfectly comfortable and disinterested in directing any more attention to his hindquarters that night (though the next day was still a viable possibility, so long as said attention took a decidedly different form) had refused to acquiesce to any demands of movement. It had taken creative cajoles and, finally, the threat of another trip across Watson’s lap before Holmes had rolled his eyes, shifted over, and allowed Watson to go after his Gladstone bag. 

Watson had tugged his trousers back down just far enough to examine the damage, procured a container of salve, and tended to the raw flesh, applying cooling liniment to overheated skin. It had taken Watson nearly an hour to coax the truth out of him. After all, none of their rules said anything about keeping secrets (Holmes’ jobs often dictated that he needed to keep certain things private, after all) and the detective had held no inclination to repeat the events of the day to anyone, at any point of time, ever. He had finally given in after Watson had begun to make wild conjectures concerning everyone they had ever met, in circumstances that made absolutely no sense. Moriarty had managed to come back from the dead, Holmes’ father had appeared for the first time in over twenty years to punish him for some age old slight, the baker’s daughter had finally realized that Holmes was a rival and hired bruisers to beat some sense into him. Finally, Watson had merely mentioned Lestrade’s name and Holmes had capitulated. His pride could only take so much of a beating, and he would be damned before anyone thought that the sallow-faced incompetent investigator had anything to do with the mottled skin on his arse. 

Watson had listened during his recounting of the episode of Mrs. Hudson’s spoon in the kitchen with nothing more than an uplifted eyebrow. When Holmes reluctantly expanded the story to include his experience with the A-frame and Clarkey’s incompetent caning, the amusement had fled from the doctor’s face with an alarming alacrity. 

“I’m uncertain as to why this triggered any response,” Holmes attempted a stretch, winced as the movement pulled at the welts, and tugged Watson back to the couch, hoping to allay the severe look of irritation growing on the doctor’s features . “I’ve said far worse things about the Yard in years past, and Clarkey’s never said a word about it.”

Watson slipped onto the edge of the sofa, lifting his arm accommodatingly as Holmes arranged him into the perfect, doctor-shaped pillow. “Some people have breaking points,” he pointed out, voice the very image of reason.

“It came out of nowhere.” Holmes had protested, face buried in Watson’s torso. Watson had murmured something that could have been an agreement, or as easily been an unenthusiastic protest, and twined his fingers through Holmes’ hair. The digits had been gentle, soothing, and Holmes had found himself drifting off to the muted sounds of London’s nightlife through their Baker Street walls.

The door to the sitting room opened, and Watson entered, bearing a fully-loaded tea tray. “Finally awake, then?” the doctor lowered the tray to the side table, leaned over and seized the back of Holmes’ neck in a firm, affectionate squeeze, dropped a kiss to his temple before he sank onto the settee beside him. “Eat up, old man-- I’m sure you neglected your diet abysmally during my absence.” Among the usual tea fixings, the tray also contained a small plate of biscuits and two sizable helpings of meat pie.

Holmes reached for a biscuit, eyeing the tea suspiciously. “Neither here nor there, Watson. Beside, you’ve already missed out on your chance to rectify such behavior.” Deciding that their irritable landlady had, most likely, not poisoned the tea in Watson’s presence, Holmes poured himself a generous amount, and doctored it to his preference.

Watson scoffed into his own teacup. “Perhaps I’ll simply wait to see how much you partake here before rendering my judgment on that front.” One eyebrow lifted up. “Mrs. Hudson took the time to make you a lovely meal. The least you could do is enjoy a bit of it.”

With a flourish, Holmes released the teacup. He curled up against the sofa back, and pushed his toes into the doctor’s lap. “In that case,” he suggested with a smile, “I think Mrs. Hudson herself has already rendered this argument invalid. Surely the ‘dear old woman’ is still irate about yesterday, and none of these dishes are fit for human consumption.”

Watson leaned forward, collected Holmes’ teacup, and deposited it back into the detective’s hands, along with one of the servings of meat pie. “Everything here is quite safe, thank you kindly.” He waited pointedly until Holmes ungratefully stuffed a forkful of pie into his mouth before continuing. “Incidentally, however, I did speak to her about your interaction the other day.”

“The incident where she attempted-- quite unsuccessfully, of course-- to poison me?” Holmes deliberately misunderstood. He caressed the inside of Watson‘s thigh, trailing his toes up and down the inner seam. Watson ignored him in favor of picking up his own serving of pie. 

“Hardly. I was actually thinking of the one where she chastised you like a small child,” the mustache twitched, and Holmes knew he was fighting back a smile at the mental image. 

“How can that possibly be amusing?” Holmes demanded, fork landing on the small plate with a clatter. “You’ve seen first hand what I look like in that position on several occasions.” He pulled his foot free, and drew his knees up to his chest, resting the half-eaten meal on the arm of the sofa. “Perhaps you’re planning on inviting her upstairs the next time she has a complaint.”

Watson chuckled, and trapped Holmes’ ankle, navigating the detective’s foot back into his lap. “Quit sulking and eat your pie. I’m not planning on doing any such thing,” he continued as Holmes lifted another small bite to his mouth, “I did inform her that, though I understood the provocation you so often create,” he ignored the rude noise Holmes issued from around his pie, “that I would greatly prefer she come to me if such an event should occur again. Mrs. Hudson agreed to let me handle such things from now on.”

Such words were clearly designed to be inflammatory. Holmes carefully chewed the rest of his bite, set the plate down once more (only to pick it right back up when Watson poked him none-too-gently in the arch of his foot) and said as calmly as possible, “you mean to say that the old woman knows about this… arrangement… of ours, and is encouraging it?”

Watson appeared to consider this idea from around a bite of food. Holmes pushed at his thigh with his toes. “No.” The doctor moved Holmes’ foot again and shot the detective a long-suffering glare. “She’s not particularly encouraging, which leads me to believe she is unaware-- after all, if she knew about it, no doubt she’d have attempted to give me a medal. She may suspect something-- this isn’t the quietest practice known to man, after all. But, in any case, I have no intention of inviting her upstairs, nor including her in any of it. I merely asked her to refrain from spanking you with a spoon again,” he emphasized the last six words, and Holmes felt a small flare of heat go up his neck, “and she agreed.”

“Wonderful,” Holmes placed the remainder of his meal on the side table, and reached for his pipe. Watson eyed the remaining few bites of food. “Will you make the same agreement with our constable companion the next time you meet him?”

Apparently, the doctor was satisfied with the amount of sustenance received. “No,” Watson said thoughtfully, distantly, and Holmes’ eyes instantly shot to the doctor’s face. What little good amusement had been there earlier had fled, leaving behind an empty, vacant, and yet cold expression. Watson caught his gaze, smiled reassuringly, and reached for the newspaper. He flicked it open. “I don’t imagine that I’ll have the same conversation with Clarkey.”

Holmes tamped the tobacco down into his pipe, and considered the odd expression and tone. Most likely, Watson had taken issue with Clarkey’s actions. As he was willing to smile at the detective, Holmes felt that there was little cause for alarm at this point in time. He scanned the section of the newspaper facing him, decided that he had better things to do than roll about the settee with Watson (especially as he had every intention of rolling about the bedroom with him later) and twisted to his feet, abandoning the pipe on the side table. If he was correct about the tenderness in his backside, then he should be bruising up quite nicely. And he wasn’t about to let such an opportunity go to waste; after all, he had a whole array of salves and ointments that he needed to be tested. And when would he have a better opportunity to test various levels of bruises against different methods of cures, and cover-ups?

About half an hour later, he was naked from the waist down and applying various concoctions to his posterior by contorting his body into different, twisted positions. Gradually, be became aware of Watson’s scrutiny following him about the room. “Terribly sorry, Doctor,” he said brightly. “I didn’t realize that this experiment would distract you from your paper. If there’s any way for me to make amends…” he trailed off, eyebrows raising suggestively, latest experimental ointment dripping from his fingertips. 

The edge of Watson’s mustache twitched. “I’d at least put on a dressing gown, before Mrs. Hudson comes up for that tea tray,” was the mild answer, before the paper rose again, a flimsy barrier between them. He did not succeed, however, in masking the spark of lust that Holmes had witnessed in his gaze.

More than willing to play this game, Holmes scoffed. Unfortunately, before he could respond, he caught the sounds of the front door. Scowling, he grabbed the dressing gown up from the floor and wiped his fingers dry on a spare piece of cloth. Holmes cocked his head to the side, listening. Two distinct pairs of footsteps had crossed the foyer to the seventeen stairs. “It appears that our friends from Scotland Yard have decided to pay us a visit. Perhaps they will bring something worthwhile, and this dry spell will blow over”

The newspaper remained upright, but Holmes could the edges of the pages crinkle under the doctor’s grip. 

A soft rap at the door, and Mrs. Hudson led Lestrade and Clarkey inside. She left almost immediately after, when neither accepted her offer to take any coats. Holmes’ gaze traveled along each man, taking in details. Both had the same mud from the Thames, and Lestrade’s cuff held a stain that could only have come from a shop a few blocks away from the Tower Bridge. The constable was doing a commendable job of looking at everything else except the other men inside of the room, seeming to prefer staring at the banked fire instead. Holmes crossed his arms over his stomach, and schooled his features. Apparently, Clarkey was a great deal more embarrassed about their altercation than he was. 

“Bit of an interesting case for you,” Lestrade began as Watson folded his newspaper and set it on the table beside Holmes’ pipe. “We received a letter early this morning that a murder would take place in a specific location, which was then given in code. The letter held all sorts of information about the murder, down to the very last detail.”

“And then you must have found a murdered body.” Holmes flung himself into his armchair, albeit a bit more gently than his usual haphazard manner. “Perhaps of an individual who had been killed in the exact manner described in your letter. As unusual as this man’s methods are, I’m not sure why they are anything truly out of the ordinary--”

“Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade interrupted, “the body was partially inside of the bridge itself.”

 

That was a bit out of the ordinary. Holmes frowned, and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, chin resting on the knuckles of his hand. “Inside the steel or the rock?”

“Rock, sir,” Clarkey spoke up, finally meeting Holmes’ eyes. He held his gaze for a moment before turning to stare at the fireplace again. “It doesn’t look like he takes the stones out though. Does it without destroying anything,”

“Yeah, real gentlemanly of him.” Lestrade shook his head. “If we’re lucky, it’s some bloke who’s snuffed his neighbor and now wants to play games. If we’re unlucky, it’s another bastard who’s going around killing the undesirables of the city.”

Holmes shrugged. “There’s no such thing as luck. For something as gruesome as this, it sounds like a revenge killing.”

“Not really brutal enough for revenge, though, right?” Clarkey asked, glancing away from the fireplace again. “There wasn’t any blood- the victim had been suffocated, probably by a pillow. Simple and tidy.”

“Men who are looking for revenge don’t always write their crimes in blood above the body,” Watson spoke up for the first time, fingers tapping against the edge of the settee. 

Holmes’ gaze flickered over to Watson. The doctor’s eyes were narrowed upon Clarky‘s slightly pallid features. “While I was stationed, briefly, in India, a group of us medics were drinking in a small bar when the bartender told us a story about a local man. Turns out this man had made an enemy out of his neighbor, who, instead of doing anything remotely honorable or legal, decided to abduct the man’s wife, abuse her in a most nefarious fashion, then return her to her husband. The woman was nearly shattered; among the rest of the crimes they perpetrated upon her, they also tied her down and beat her back, hands, and feet with a willow branch. She may have never walked again

“The man considered approaching the law, but knew that nothing could be done- there was an issue regarding the man’s political position and his aspirations, and this man was, despite his land-holdings, a nobody. It was a strange, convoluted incident that none of us truly understood at the time. So the man did what the lot of us agreed, in our semi-inebriated states, to be the next best thing. He and the men who worked for him abducted the neighbor in return. They didn’t bestow the same treatment back upon him, however. Instead, they lashed a rope around his hands, stretched his arms out over a log, and, armed with a sharp sword, cleaved the appendages right in twain.”

“Barbaric,” Lestrade murmured and shook his head from side to side in a slow, disapproving arc. 

Watson lifted his good shoulder in an approximation of a shrug, his gaze still leveled on the constable’s face. “True, they were no medieval English lords, who would have issued challenges and done each other harm in a duel. And there is a lot more blood than in your current case. But I’m afraid I have to admire their tenacity to properly look after what was theirs.”

Clarky cleared his throat, and tugged the stiff uniform collar away from his collarbone. “Hopefully, you’ll never have the need to do so yourself, Doctor.” 

“Indeed-- after all, when I remove a limb, it happens much more slowly. Medical saws don’t sever muscle, tendon and bone at the same speed that a rapier might. That would have been a much colder form of revenge, Constable. To slowly hack away at a limb, rather than remove it in one smooth blow. But, should such a thing happen to me and mine, I suppose I would do the gentlemanly thing, and issue a single warning first.”

Lestrade, completely unaware of the tension in the room, laughed. “And then proceed with the drawn pistols at sunrise, eh Doctor?”

Watson’s lips curved up in the approximation of a smile, but his eyes remained coldly fixated on the constable. “Surprisingly, I’m not so honorable, Inspector. I think I’d much prefer my old rusty bone-saw to pistols any day.”

Watson’s lips remained curled in imitation of a smile for a moment longer before finally looking away from the terrified constable, releasing Clarkey like a fish from a hook. Clarkey choked, drawing the confused attention of Lestrade. Holmes, eyes still leveled on the doctor, lifted a brow in curiosity. Watson merely sipped his tea and looked innocently unaware that he had just threatened an officer of the law.

Holmes turned his attention back to Lestrade, who was still gaping at Clarkey. “I would be happy to come take a glace at the scene.” He stood, and waved the two men toward the door. “I’ll just change into something a bit more fashionable,” he said with a gesture to his threadbare dressing gown, then ignored the upraised eyebrow Watson sent his direction, “and then the good doctor and I will be on our way.”

Lestrade nodded briskly, turned and marched out of the room. Clarkey stumbled along behind him, after giving Watson one last worried glance. Rather than moving, Holmes relaxed back into his chair, elbow braced against the arm, chin grasped by a long-fingered hand, and studied his flat mate. Watson merely gazed back, unabashed.

“You do realize, Mother Hen, that your story failed to give an example of non aggressive revenge, do you not? How is chopping someone arms off not bloody?”

“That wasn’t the point of the story,” Watson levered himself to his feet with his cane, and crossed the foyer to where Holmes still sat. Bending at the waist, using the arms of the chair, the doctor leveled his face with Holmes,’ features impassive. “That really wasn’t the point of the story at all, old cock.”

The left corner of Holmes’ mouth quirked up, and he slid forward in his chair, fighting to suppress a wince as his thighs slid over the edge of his seat. “So I’m your wife now? I must say, your taste in femininity has gone drastically downhill in your later years.”

“I knew I should have paid more attention to the baker’s daughter,” Watson murmured, and nipped Holmes’ lower lip between his own, before straightening up. “I suppose I’ll just have to pretend.” 

Holmes rolled his eyes, and hauled himself upright. “Watson, I know your imagination. It’s most decidedly not up to the task.”

The doctor sent him a lightning quick grin. “Come now, you’re holding up the proceedings. Lestrade will be waiting for us.”


End file.
